White Noise
by Arid Tundra
Summary: AU. Slash, the boys aren't related. Sam's mundane life in his small hometown is suddenly disrupted, both by his own burgeoning psychic powers and a handsome wanderer called Dean who is much more than he appears.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Supernatural or School for Seduction

A/N: Okay, pretty short chapter, but I wanted to get this posted :) Please review and tell me what you think.

* * *

"Madame Grace's psychic hotline, how can I help you?" Sam kept his voice polite and emotionless, though slightly on the cheery side. He drummed his fingers on his desk as he listened to the woes of his latest caller, making 'hmms' and noises of agreement every now and then, and resisted the urge to sigh. What was the point in ringing a psychic hotline if all you were going to do was babble on about how wrong the predictions for your starsign had been this week? Didn't your girlfriends suffice?

He had taken this job at the insistence of a friend whose mother ran a psychic hotline from her home. It sounded like such an easy way to make money; just set up a toll line with ridiculously high prices and hope that there were enough gullible idiots around to keep your business afloat. And one thing Sam knew was that the world was never short of just that kind of person. He had been living with his aunt and uncle for a year now, and they might as well have been brain dead for all their smarts. How on earth he was related to those people was beyond him.

"… so I got the paper as usual, flicked right to the horoscope section…"

_Give me a play by play, why don't you._ God, sometimes he really hated his job. The calls were hardly ever serious, and though the pay was generous considering his inexperience at this sort of thing, it still didn't make the constant boredom any more bearable. How on earth had he let Jess talk him into this in the first place?

"… it was a shame, because we'd had such an amazing dinner the night before. My husband's a Leo, you know, so he's a great chef, very creative…."

Sam wasn't sure how she had gotten from horoscopes to dinner so quickly, and he didn't particularly care. She had already been talking for three minutes at the rate of $2.45 per minute, which was what mattered in the end. As long as the service was good enough to keep the caller talking and, therefore, spending, you didn't really have to make much of an effort. You didn't really need to be psychic, either, though it was useful when a serious call came along (which was almost never.) Sam didn't really like to think of himself as 'psychic,' though he didn't know how else to explain his… unusual abilities.

"… I based my whole week around those predictions and listen to the mess it landed me in!" _God lady, what do you expect from listening to that bullshit?_ "… goodness, I was so angry today."

"What happened?" Sam managed to sound politely interested, though he felt that talking in a monotone drawl would greatly suit his current mood.

"Well, my horoscope said 'There are inspiring people around you. Let yourself be bowled over.'" Sam cocked a disbelieving eyebrow as the woman continued, telling him of her confusion as to what the horoscope actually _meant._ _What the hell does that mean anyway? Does it even make any sense?_ "I didn't think it meant that I would _literally_ get bowled over!" The eyebrow rose higher; this call was finally getting interesting. "I was just walking from work down that pretty little street; do you know the one? It's something like Ray… Rachel… Raleigh…"

With great difficulty he repressed a groan, leaning back in his seat and staring up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes. When had his life gotten so monotonous? He was sixteen; he should be out with his friends, getting into trouble or something. Not acting as some sort of agony uncle for bored, middle-aged, _stupid_ housewives. The last time he had gone somewhere with a friend… when had that been? He squinted, brushing his bangs off his forehead as he mulled it over.

"… anyway, I was walking down that street, minding my own business I might add, when the rudest, most bedraggled looking man, a _smoker_, the disgusting creature…"

_I went to the movies with Jess the other week…_ That had been two weeks ago. Jess had begged him to go along with her, and how could he say no to such a friendly, pretty girl? By the time he had squirmed his way through half of some chick flick called _School for Seduction_ he had been wishing that he _did_ have the ability to say no to friendly, pretty girls. It should be easier for him than most, considering the fact that he was most definitely _not_ straight, but he had somehow never developed the ability to stand up to women. That was okay though; he was under the impression that a fair amount of males in the world had the exact same problem. Girls were just so damn confusing.

"… he ran right into me! Knocked me head over heels, and I must have bumped my head because the next thing I knew it was daytime and I was standing outside a dumpster." Sam frowned at the phone and pressed it closer to his ear, sitting up straight again and resting an elbow on the desk. "I think something strange is going on here." All of a sudden the woman sounded nervous, unsure. "Everyone's ignoring me."

"What do you mean by that?" There was a strange feeling growing in his stomach; a theory was forming in his brain.

"It's like… they can't even see me." This time her tone was closer to terror. "What's happening to me?!"

"Calm down," Sam said, making his voice low and smooth. The woman was panting into the phone, and he could tell she was almost hyperventilating. "Take deep breaths, okay? I'll sort this out; I just have to ask you a few questions." He heard deep, shuddering gasps of breath, and what sounded like a little sob. "Can you answer?"

"Y-Yes." Her gulp was audible as she swallowed down frantic tears.

"Good. Now, tell me your full name."

"M-Maureen C-Carter."

"Thank you, Maureen. I'll just be a second, okay? Then we can sort this out." Again the smooth, reassuring tone. He knew that to her he would seem totally calm, when in reality his stomach was churning with worry. He dragged his laptop towards him and typed her name into Google, biting his bottom lip as he waited for the results of his search to load. He gave a near-silent hiss of both anger and worry, his stomach lurching, when he read the headlines from the website of the local newspaper.

BODY FOUND IN A DUMPSTER ON RAYFORD DRIVE.

Fuck.

* * *

"Go slit your wrists, emo kid."

"Shut up, Dean."

Sam sat slumped in a booth in the rundown diner on the outskirts of town, drawing patterns into his tomato sauce with one long, skinny fry. It wasn't the most reputable of establishments, but it was quiet and the food was pretty good. It wasn't like he went there every night after work on the off chance that Dean would be there. Of course not.

"Seriously, you look like your dog just died. What's up?" Dean shot him a concerned frown, simultaneously leaning forward and filching a few of his chips from his plate. Despite himself, Sam's lip quirked, the contrast between the two actions something that he had only ever seen Dean pull off. He wasn't sure if the concern was just a cover for the thievery, but it gave him a warm feeling in the pool of his stomach anyway.

"Nothing. Just some problems at work, that's all." He shoved the fry into his mouth, chewing lethargically, before eyeing up his burger and wondering if he was hungry enough to want it.

"You want that burger?"

And before he could really think about it, he had already said yes. It seemed that he had trouble saying no to arrogant pricks as well. Arrogant pricks with huge hazel eyes, spiky dark blonde hair, hard muscles that bulged under goddamned _tight_ shirts and… he was gonna shut up now. Blushing slightly at the route his thoughts were taking, he shifted in his seat, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

"Sure you're okay?" If possible, he blushed even more, trying to hide behind his bangs as he nodded fervently. "Okay, I get it, you can stop tryna dislodge your head from your neck now."

Willing away the red staining his checks, Sam gave the twenty year old a glare. "Jerk." Dean smirked at him (that sexy smirk) and he thought he might just melt down into a small puddle of goo. _Control yourself!_ "Areyouenjoyingyourvacation?" _Argh._

Dean cocked an eyebrow at him, inhaling the last of his burger and leaning back with a hand resting on his stomach. He gave a content sigh and grinned over at Sam. "Care to say that again? With spaces in between the words this time?"

"I-I said, are you enjoying your vacation?"

Dean had arrived in town a fortnight ago, and Sam had met him in this very diner. That night had been one of the rare ones in which the diner had been full, and so Dean had taken a seat in Sam's booth. After they had both gotten their drinks Dean had started talking to him, asking him with an almost practised casualness about the history of the town and what the sights were like, saying that he was on vacation and he wanted to know all there was to know about the place. He needn't have bothered to explain himself; as soon as he smiled, Sam had been well and truly hooked and would have told him anything he asked. It was horribly embarrassing, but it was the sad truth.

Somehow, even though the usually intelligent Sam had been turned into a bumbling idiot by his instant attraction to Dean, they had held an enjoyable conversation, and Sam had found that he liked Dean's company as much as he liked his looks. The next time Sam had gone into the diner Dean was sitting in his usual booth, and he had somehow found himself sharing it with the older man again, and again, and again.

"Meh, s'alright. Think I might leave soon though. No offence, man, but this is a boring little place." Dean drummed his fingers on the table, smiling lazily over at Sam, and the teen felt his heart clench painfully. Dean was leaving?

"None taken." He gave the older man a lopsided smile and tried not to show his disappointment on his face. He was getting phone calls from a dead woman, and now he would probably never see Dean again. Life was great.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Supernatural or YouTube

A/N: Yay, another chapter! I'm really enjoying writing this story – I've wanted to do something like this for a long time. I hope you're enjoying it too! Please tell me your opinions and REVIEW!! Come on... you know you want to. Really. Like whoa?

* * *

Sam sat slouched over his desk, cheek resting in one palm. It was Friday night, his last day of work for the week, and he'd only had to answer one call so far. It had been a teenage girl, wanting to know if her crush liked her or not. Easy enough – he had just asked her how he acted around her, how much attention he paid her and things like that. Judging by what she told him he hadn't had the heart to say that the guy wasn't at all interested in her, and so he had gone to the old fallback of just being vague. _This isn't the right time to be with him,_ he had said. _Bide your time or your relationship may end before it even begins._ Hopefully, the girl would _bide her time_ long enough to develop a new crush on someone that she had more of a chance with. She was only fourteen – she would probably have a new crush by end of the week. He hoped.

That call had been an hour ago, and god was he bored. Mrs Moore would be majorly pissed if she caught him slacking off, but he reckoned he had a good excuse. She was out with her husband anyway, and probably wouldn't be back for a long while. For a moment he considered going to the living room where Jess was watching television and having a chat, but he didn't think he could stomach it.

The problem was, she had a very obvious crush on him, and was always trying to flirt. Just like with his previous caller, he couldn't bring himself to let her down and tell her that he thought of her as a friend – a good friend, but only a friend. Jess was a perceptive girl – he bet that she would be able to hear his unspoken _and I'm interested in someone else anyway,_ and he had no intention of telling anyone – least of all Dean himself – about his latest crush.

Sam groaned, dropping his forehead to the desk and banging it lightly against the cool wood. No matter how hard he tried, Dean always managed to pop into his thoughts somehow, day in day out. He had managed to not think about Dean for two hours, a new record, and now he had broken it, and his minds eye was presenting him with various_interesting_ images and how he could he jerk off when Jess was just down the hall? He wondered, if he was discovered, how he would explain _that_ to her; he wondered if Jess would tell her mother just what he had been doing. He doubted that Jess would be that mean, but hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, right?

He tried desperately to think about things like cannibals, and people that ate kittens, and his aunt and uncle getting frisky in the bedroom – oh yeah, that last one worked. A little too well, really – now he had horrible images involving his almost obese relatives using fluffy handcuffs and whips and he didn't think he would ever get a hard on again.

Mouth set in a grimace; he decided to distract himself by going on YouTube. He grabbed his laptop and slid it over the desk towards him, flipping it open and swiftly typing in his password. He drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting impatiently for the damn thing to load so he could watch a video to replace the horrible one playing in his head, when there was a knock on the door.

He spun his seat around, guilt all over his face, and gave a sigh of relief when he saw Jess leaning against the doorframe, smirking over at him. He managed to give her a wobbly smile back, heart beating overtime. For a moment he had thought it was Mrs Moore – and that woman was downright dangerous when you got on her bad side.

"Slacking off, huh, Sam?" Smiling teasingly, she tsked softly and walked up to him, watching as he opened his browser and clicked on the shortcut to YouTube. "You thought I was Mom, didn't you?"

He gave a sheepish grin, turning to face her. Maybe Jess would be a better distraction than the internet after all. "Yeah. I don't want to end up like Richard."

Jess laughed. "You remember that?"

"Hell yeah. How could I forget – he spent that whole week telling everyone at school what a crazy old broad your Mom is." He grinned. "And then she got him back for that, too."

"God, I know." She grinned, eyes sparkling with mirth. "It was bad enough that he called me a bitch, but then he went and insulted Mom even after she gave him the hiding of his life. I dunno if he was brave, stupid, or had a death wish." For a second they sat together, reminiscing, and then Jess started talking once more. "So, why are you slacking off, anyway? Boring night?"

"Yeah, I only got one call."

"Damn, that sucks. What was it about?"

"Some fourteen year old girl wanting to know if her crush liked her or not."

"Really?" He saw the expression on Jess's face, and he only had a second to gather his thoughts before the onslaught began. "What would you say to me if I asked you whether my crush liked me or not?"

"Uhm," Sam mumbled, stalling for time whilst internally cursing himself. He had really left himself wide open for that one – he should have seen it coming. After a long moment of trying to come up with something that wouldn't hurt her feelings, he decided to just tell her the truth. If he continued to string her along like this, it would hurt her more in the end. "I would say that he really likes you, but only as a very good friend."

Jess's whole body fell, slumping down in her seat, the smile sliding off her face. "Oh." And then she was silent for so long that Sam felt he had to explain himself more.

"I'm sorry, I just, I..." He stopped and gulped, nervous as hell. No-one knew he was gay, and though he was sure Jess didn't have any problems with that kind of... sexual orientation, it wasn't like he wanted to _tell_ her about it. "It's not like you're not nice and pretty and intelligent and - stuff, it's just..." _Jesus, are you gonna keep babbling all night or just tell her?_ "I'm gay."

Holding his breath, he peered at Jess in consternation, waiting for a reaction. For a long, horrible moment all she did was stare, an expression of complete shock upon her features. And then she let out a long breath, sitting up straighter in her seat and proceeding to continue with her one sided staring contest. One sided, because Sam's eyes were darting furiously around the room in a desperate attempt not to meet her gaze. He had no idea what she thought of his confession, and he was loathe to find out. He would rather run and keep running until he never had to face her again. When had he become such a coward?

"That... explains a lot." Jess's quiet voice reached his ears, and his eyes darted to meet hers, wide with panic. What did she mean by that? Was his sexual orientation so obvious? "I mean, there are a few things... not really noticeable, but still."

"What sorts of things?" His voice was hoarse.

"Well, you never join in our other friends' conversations about who they find hot and stuff like that. And when I think about it, I've never seen you checking out a girl, ever, when most guys your age are... a little _too_ eager about girls." She gave him a strange look; it was familiar, but the fact that he couldn't place it unnerved him, and he shifted in his seat. "How long have you been gay? Sorry, let me rephrase that... how long have you _known_ that you're gay?"

He frowned. "I always knew that I wasn't interested in girls, but I didn't know anything about being gay when I was a kid. I suppose I must have been nine when I knew for sure."

"Hmm." She was giving him that look again. "How did you know for sure? Did someone explain to you about homosexuality?"

He managed a wan smile. "No, more like my best friend was making fun of 'fags' and I asked him what they were."

"Ouch. What did he say?"

"He said that they were major sinners and that they were all going to burn in hell for eternity. That they liked guys instead of girls, and it was disgusting and unnatural."

"What a dick." Her eyes flashed in anger for a moment as she grimaced, and then _what the hell is that look she keeps giving me?_ "Who was the first guy that you liked?"

Abruptly, Sam realised what the look was, and he immediately had the urge to bolt. It was the look that Jess, a budding scientist, had on her face when they were doing experiments, when they were learning about something new and she picked the topic apart under the flustered gaze of the teacher. He remembered that look vividly from the time that they had each dissected a rat in class. She had been poking at the organs, cutting the animal up with almost surgical skill, leaning so closely over the poor creature that her hair was almost brushing it. It was apparent that, right now, he was the rat in this scenario.

Not eager for any more questioning, he decided to get defensive. "I dunno. Could you stop nosing around in my personal life now?"

"Nope." Her gaze was cold and calculating. "Your refusal to talk about the issue is what caused this mess in the first place. You owe me this."

He should have known that being defensive wouldn't work on Jess.

* * *

Sam walked down Rayford Drive, head bowed and hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, trying his best to look innocent. He was convinced everyone knew what he was doing – could see the word FREAK in bright neon across his forehead. Because he was being a major freak. Instead of hanging out in the arcade or something like a normal sixteen year old, he was going to hang out in a narrow alleyway containing a large dumpster in the hopes that he would find a clue, or something.

He greatly doubted that he would find any tangible evidence when the police, the_professionals_, had already looked through it, but he had to feel like he was doing something to help Maureen Carter. He would have loved to have a look at the body – and god did that make him sound like he had a bad case of necrophilia – but it was in some morgue somewhere, and he hadn't progressed from lurking around at crime scenes to breaking and entering. Yet.

He had left work half an hour earlier, after Jess – feeling a little sorry for interrogating him for nigh on an hour – had promised that she would answer any calls that came through when he wasn't there. She had also promised that she wouldn't breathe a word to her mother. Normally he wouldn't have bothered to leave early, but, well... he didn't want to miss his rendezvous with Dean to go dumpster diving.

The top half of Rayford Drive was in the wealthier, touristier part of town, full of five star cafes and small, expensive boutiques. None of the people walking around were wearing scruffy jackets and faded old jeans, and he got plenty of looks from the many that were dressed up for a night out in a gourmet restaurant. It was why he didn't like hanging out in places like this – he hated the judgemental looks, the I'm-better-than-you attitude. They didn't even know him – who were they to judge?

He breathed a silent sigh of relief when he walked across an intersection and came upon the bottom half of Rayford Drive, which was most definitely more middle class. He immediately felt at home. From the intersection he only had to walk a few more feet before he reached a narrow brick alleyway set in between an antiques shop and a Chinese takeaway. He nodded to the teen behind the counter in the takeaway, recognising him from one of his classes, and pulled an empty Coke bottle from his pocket before strolling casually up to the alley.

One large, bright orange metal dumpster was set against the alley wall, both halves of the black plastic lid lowered. Fiddling with the bottle in his hands, Sam moved as close to it as he could manage whilst still looking casual. On the front right corner of the dumpster, at knee height, was a long line of blood, small rusty streaks from the original stain leaking down the sides of the dumpster and dripping onto the concrete. It looked as though someone had hit the side of their head against the dumpster. He glanced around; no-one was watching, and he couldn't see any phone-wielding ghosts hanging around the area. Maybe he'd have to come back at night.

Letting out a long breath, he ducked under the bright yellow tape proclaiming POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS that cordoned the area off. There didn't seem to be any police guarding the place, so he assumed that the forensic scientists had done their job and no-one had gotten around to cleaning up the bloodstains yet. Hunching down, trying to make his body as small and unnoticeable as possible, he took a short glance at the bloodstain before moving around to the front of the dumpster.

It was creepy. One moment he was comfortably warm, jacket protecting him well from the winter wind, and the next he was as cold as if he had been wearing only his boxers. A shiver crept up his spine, both from the cold and from sudden dread, and he wrapped his arms about himself in an attempt to stave off the abrupt chill. He had no doubt that this strange pocket of cold just in front of the dumpster was caused by something supernatural – something like a ghost. He hated it when his sixth sense was correct. It only ever meant trouble.

* * *

He pushed the diner door open, a frown on his face, for once not grimacing at the pop music blaring through the old, tinny speakers. The visit to the alleyway had solidified his problem, made everything real. His gut was churning with worry – worry for Maureen, worry for himself. Sure, he had always known he was psychic, had seen a few ghosts and supernatural creatures in his lifetime, but it had never been so close to home. He had never been contacted by one before, never _talked_ to one. He had thought that it was impossible to – that ghosts were just old imprints of people not ready to leave this mortal plane, beings that didn't think or feel, just existed.

His life was getting so messed up, and now he was questioning all the things he had taken for granted. What were ghosts, really? What did all this crap mean – why was he being contacted by a spirit? If there was something she wanted from him, something he could do for her, he had no clue as to what it was, and that both pissed him off and made him feel totally useless.

Sighing, he looked up and met Dean's bright-eyed, slightly concerned gaze, and suddenly the churning in his stomach was replaced with butterflies of a different kind. He smiled at him and slid into his side of the booth, worries completely forgotten. Screw all that mystical mumbo jumbo – he was with Dean, and life was perfect when he was with Dean.

Well, except when he started blushing and bumbling and acting like an imbecile.

"Hey there, Sammy." The nickname caused colour to stain Sam's cheeks and warmth to pool in his belly, and he tried not to beam like an idiot. "Thought you might not come." Waitaminute – under the teasing, jovial tone, was that _worry_ he heard? For a moment he just stared, speechless, convinced that his ears were betraying him. There no way Dean would like him, a teenager, a _guy_ – was there?

Noticing that Dean was giving him a weird look, he blushed even hotter and hurried to fill the void of silence. "Sorry, I'm a bit late aren't I?"

"No worries." Dean grinned at him. "It's not like we're on a schedule, is it?"

_Well, we sort of are. I plan my whole week around these, uhm, dates? Meetings?_ Wow, he really did have no life. He gave a nervous chuckle. "Nope, not at all." He desperately needed to know the answer to the question that had been bugging him all day, and so he bypassed greetings and small talk and instead went straight for the jugular. "So, uhm, you said you were leaving town?"

"Well..." Dean smiled at the waitress that was walking over to their table and then turned to give him a dazzling, breathtaking grin. "I think I'll be staying around for a little while longer yet."

THANK.GOD.

Sam bit the inside of his cheek as he tried furiously not to give a victory whoop or let loose with gleeful, maniacal laughter. His whole body hummed with happiness, and was that a brass band he could hear playing? He wasn't a religious guy, but this? Was a fucking miracle.

"Sam? Hey, Sammy, you awake in there?" Dean raised an eyebrow, and with much effort Sam managed to turn his focus on the outside world once again, though his expression was dazed and dreamy. "You gonna order or what?" The waitress was standing by Sam's chair, chewing on the tip of her pen as she waited for him.

He didn't think he could handle making decisions right now. "Oh..." A pause. "I'll have whatever you're having."

Dean turned to the waitress with a grin plastered on his face. "You heard him." Lowering his voice, he leaned closer to her, speaking in a loud stage whisper. "Sorry, I don't think he's taken his pills today." The waitress gave Dean a nervous giggle and Sam a wary glance, and then high tailed it out of there as though the cops were on her tail.

Well, _that_ had woken him up. Sam blushed furiously (and why did he always have to blush when he was around Dean?), glaring daggers at his dining companion. "You're a prick, you know that?"

Dean responded with a lewd grin, eyes twinkling with mischief as he leant forward, setting his elbows on the table and craning his torso over the cool plastic. Sam's whole body tensed when he felt Dean's hot breath on the bare skin of his neck, sending a shiver of desire down his spine which then headed straight to his groin. "Sure am, babe."_Ohmygoddidhejustcallmebabe?_ He was panting slightly, rock hard, eyes half lidded with lust. Dean was so fucking close (and he wasn't moving away), his lips looking soft and full and he desperately wanted them to be all over his body and oh my god, that sentence _had_ to be an innuendo.

After a blissful eternity of just being close to each other, breathing the same air, Dean leant back into his seat once more. Leaving Sam extremely confused and unbearably aroused, he smirked and carried on the conversation as though nothing had happened. And maybe, for Dean, that was true.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Supernatural, McDonalds or Big Macs

A/N: Mmkay, this is the last chapter of relative calm before the action starts. We get a peek into Dean's mind this time as well. And as a little note, I probably won't be updating for a while after this, as I'll be off at camp next week. Sorry! Anyway, please read and review :)

* * *

Sam lay on his side on the couch, half of his focus on a documentary about the horribly exciting topic of plant reproduction. He would have changed the channel ages ago, if not for the fact that the remote was halfway across the room and he couldn't be bothered getting off his ass. It was Saturday, he had nothing to do, and he was determined to be lazy.

His aunt and uncle had gone over to his aunts' sisters' house for lunch and as everyone going was old and boring, like them, he hadn't wanted to go. He wouldn't have been welcome anyway – he was _the bastard child_, born out of wedlock to a father who was the black sheep of his family and a mother who was only seventeen. They had never approved of her; never approved of anything his father did, and to them Sam was just a mistake, a lesser human being, undeserving of their time and affection.

After his mother died in his nursery when he was six months old, Tobias Barrett had had yet another falling out with his family about her, this one permanent. Sam didn't really know much, as his father never talked about his family, but he was under the impression that they had been happy about her death and dad hadn't been able to stomach it. Sam could hardly blame him; he himself had had to restrain from strangling the bastards when they had been slagging off his dad at his funeral. He had done pretty damn well, considering; besides the incident when he had broken one of his uncles' noses, he had just kept to insults and had a furious shouting match with his grandmother.

Sighing, Sam rolled over onto his back and stared unseeingly up at the ceiling. He was dealing with dads' death, sort of. There were still times when he felt as though his dads' death had left him with a gaping black hole inside, had ripped something important out of him and left him unable to do anything about it, but they were now becoming fewer. He was glad of that, happy that those nights of lying in bed and crying silent, hopeless, homesick tears were over. He remembered that too well; sitting on his bed, head in his hands, stomach churning as he cried silently, sometimes for hours; he just couldn't seem to stop. After a while he wouldn't be sure what he was crying about anymore.

Making new friends had helped, and he knew he really owed Jess. It hadn't taken her long to see that something was bothering him and she had badgered him until he told her everything. He hadn't been annoyed; despite his stoic attitude, despite repeatedly telling himself that he was strong enough on his own and he didn't need anyone, he had really wanted to get it off his chest. His aunt and uncle were definitely not the sort of people he would ever seek (or get) comfort from, and Jess had been ready and willing to help. He didn't like to think about that heartfelt conversation; jeez, he had _cried._ In public! Well, if you could call being alone with Jess in her house public… but he still wasn't pleased about it.

God, he didn't want to think about this. With a groan, he rolled back onto his side and off the couch, ending up on his knees on the spotless carpet (spotless thanks to his aunt, who was a total clean freak.) For a few moments he just sat there and stared up at the television, half asleep, and then he levered himself his feet with a groan and lurched towards the remote, snatching it up and starting to hunt for the off button. When he finally found it he slammed it down and slumped against the couch once more, eyes half closed._ I really shouldn't have stayed up all night reading yesterday._

He allowed himself a moment more of rest, limp limbs sinking into the dark brown leather, and then he stumbled back to his feet with a sigh. Rubbing the grit out of his eyes, he meandered into the kitchen, hoping that rummaging around in the fridge and cupboard would make previously non-existent food suddenly appear. He had looked just twenty minutes ago, and there had been nothing edible that didn't have to be made from scratch. He was a pretty good cook, but he really couldn't be bothered.

He was just about to open the cupboard again when the phone in the lounge started to ring. Cursing, he whirled around and jogged over, instilled with a sense of urgency at the phones shrill call. He didn't know why he always panicked about not being in time to pick up the phone – if the caller really wanted to talk to him they would probably wait a while before hanging up. Skidding across the linoleum of the kitchen floor with his socks, he scrambled into the living room and wrenched the phone from the cradle, feeling at once victorious and stupid.

"Hello?"

"Is this Madame Grace's psychic hotline?" The voice was rough and hoarse, and most definitely male.

_What the hell?_ "Um, no, you have the wrong number." This number wasn't anything like his work number; how on earth could they have gotten it wrong?

"No I haven't." Again that voice, grating and raw as though he had gravel in his throat. It sounded like someone had wrung his neck, and Sam shivered at the image and also at the man's' strange words, paranoia starting to eat at his gut.

"Yes, you have. This isn't the hotline. This isn't even a toll number! You've got it wrong!" Despite himself, his voice betrayed his growing fright, becoming higher, reedy almost, his words rude and demanding.

"You're Sam." _Oh god, is he a stalker?!_ "I know it. You can help me." It was a firm statement, and Sam was bewildered by the absolute conviction in his voice.

"Help you? How?"

"I can't talk to anyone else. They can't hear me, but you can."

An idea sprung to life and he clutched the phone closer to his ear in a white knuckled grip, almost hissing into the mouthpiece. "Who told you that?"

"We all know."

"We?"

"Look, I don't have time for the twenty questions; you have to do this for me. I've been waiting for _years_ to get justice!"

Sam gulped. "Justice? For what?"

"For my death, of course."

The receiver dropped with a clatter to the carpet, the back popping out and releasing batteries that clacked together before landing and proceeding to roll along the floor and underneath the couch. The sounds reached Sam's ears muted and dull, as though through underwater, and he stared down at the phone with something like terror in his eyes.

_What the fuck was that?!_

Oh, god, he knew perfectly well but he couldn't believe it. A _ghost_ had called him, on his home phone! A ghost who seemed to know he was psychic; who had told him that 'we' all know it as well! Was 'we' the rest of the ghost population? Would he be constantly harassed by restless spirits demanding things of him? What the hell was going on??

He had to stop panicking, he had to think this through. Taking deep, calming breaths, Sam slid slowly down the wall and landed with an unceremonious thump on his ass, hugging his legs to his chest and resting his chin on his knees. It was probably just a prank call. The fact that he had only recently talked to a dead woman over the phone was just a coincidence. _Yeah right._ It wasn't like someone talking to him on the phone was a supernatural phenomenon. _It is when the caller is dead._ How could he put this all behind him and pretend it hadn't happened when logic kept getting in the way?

If this guy was really a ghost, the second ghost that had gotten in touch with him over the phone, it was probably going to become a trend. He was too much of a stickler for the facts to do denial well, so he'd just have to deal with this somehow. He had two options: help the ghosts, or stop them from calling him. Somehow. He had no idea how to do either, and he had never been able to turn his abilities off and on. He couldn't just decide to not receive calls. Hell, he couldn't control his 'powers' at all.

So, he needed outside help. But who did you talk to about something like this? Another psychic? Mrs Moore was somewhat psychic, but the only thing she had to show for it was extremely good intuition, which was really the only thing you needed when you made your money as a telephone psychic (was there a word for that? Telepsychic or something?) What he needed was someone with real, tangible ability. But if there was someone around like that, would they advertise it? Was it only the fake psychics that used their 'gifts' to make money?

He had no idea what to do. Sighing, he pushed himself off the wall and to his feet, swaying slightly as he regained his balance. Gripping his hair in his hands, he tugged slightly, the pain centring him, letting him focus again. If he couldn't do anything about it he would just have to deal, and hope to god that it didn't happen again.

Or cause him harm...

* * *

The Impala sat stationary in the car park of the McDonalds, the engine ticking quietly as it slowly cooled down. Dean sat slumped across the front bench seat, listening to the muted strains of Metallica leaking from the speakers as he slowly made his way through a Big Mac. He wasn't really hungry, and the thing had about the same amount of lustre as a piece of cardboard, but it was something to occupy him, distract him from the huge failure that was his current hunt.

There had been a sudden increase of supernatural activity in this sleepy little town a month ago, and Dean had been here for a tiring fortnight, killing what felt like hundreds of creatures without ever finding the source for the sudden influx of things that went bump in the dark. It was both pissing him off and making him feel inadequate, and if he didn't end this thing once and for all very soon he could go crazy. He _never_ failed a hunt, was never unable to kill the bastard who was causing all the trouble. He couldn't allow himself to slip. Messing up was never and would never be an option. What would his father think of him then?

The opinion of John Winchester was the only one that mattered. He didn't give a crap about what other people thought of him, but one bad word or look or gesture from his father made him feel like he was the scum of the earth. He was a soldier, a good son, and he was always striving to make his dad proud. He supposed it was embarrassing; to be twenty years old and still be so desperate to please his father, but it was a hard habit to break out of. From the age of four it was the only thing he had ever strived to do.

But John Winchester hardly ever gave affection freely and despite Dean giving his best effort twenty four seven, he still didn't know if it was enough, because his dad never told him. He was the perfect son, he wanted to always be the perfect son, but some recognition would be good. It wasn't like he had bad self esteem or anything... Okay, well maybe he did. A little. But he would never admit it though, never let it show, least not to the person who mattered most of all. Least not to the person who could change it with just a few words, or a grin, or an affectionate clap on the shoulder. Something more than just a curt nod or the faintest shadow of a smile.

God, he hated introspection. He needed to think of something else. Slumping further into his seat, he chucked the now empty Big Mac packet over the back of the seat and started on his fries whilst trying to think up an interesting topic. It wasn't every day that Dean tried to amuse himself by thinking, but this was a particularly boring day, and there weren't any cute homosexual guys in this crappy little place. Weren't any cute guys, period. The people around here were probably all homophobic hicks who sat around chewing of blades of grass, pig hunting and feeling up cows all day (cause that was what milking was, right?)

_Wait, let me take that back._ There was one very cute guy in this town, and as an added bonus, he seemed to be interested in him. Dean have a slow, wide grin, and decided that his next topic of choice was Sam.

The kid was only sixteen, but he was so darn tall, almost taller than Dean. Normally he went for guys that were shorter than him (because he was _always_ the man of the relationship, thank you very much) but this one was special enough that he could let it slide. God, he was the cutest thing _ever_. With those slanted, slightly feline greenish hazel eyes, the shaggy chocolate brown mop, those long bangs he was always ducking behind, the grin that lit up his whole face, and god, the _dimples_. Those things would be the death of him.

Another thing that made him irresistible was that he had the hugest, most obvious crush on Dean. He was always blushing and stuttering around him, so nervous and unsure of himself, and it just made him even more adorable. Dean felt a tiny bit bad for continually taking advantage of the fact and trying to make him even more flustered than he already was, but it was so hard to resist.

It was hard to resist jumping him, too, but the kid was only sixteen and it might be just a phase he was going through. Maybe he was just experimenting and would soon decide that he was strictly heterosexual. Either way, Dean didn't want to force anything on him; he remembered how confused he was when he was sixteen, his opinions changing constantly, his hormones running rampage. Even if Sam did give consent to sex, he would probably chicken out as soon as things got serious. Dean was fairly sure he was a virgin, and he bet that Sam would feel horribly inadequate and maybe even scared if he did the dirty with a twenty year old. Especially one that he didn't know very well, one that would only fuck him and leave him, and break his unstable teenage heart. Dean didn't mind his reputation as a heartbreaker, but Sam deserved better than that.

Jeez, it sounded like he really cared for the kid, when all this was just a casual thing. Right?

Dean was startled from his thoughts by the shrill ringing of his cell phone. He immediately sprung up, sitting poker straight in his seat, grabbing the phone from the dashboard and flipping it open before pressing it against his ear. He didn't need to look at the caller ID to know who it was.

"Sir?"

"Dean. Have you gotten anywhere with this hunt yet?"

Dean winced. Though his dads' voice was emotionless, he could picture clearly the look of disappointment and disgust adorning his features. "I've killed a lot of things, but not whatever's causing them to come here."

"I thought so." The words were free of judgment, yet they made Dean feel worthless. "I called Missouri, and she says a psychic is behind it."

Shaking off his personal demons, Dean instead did what he did best and focused on hunting. "What do you mean? Are they summoning the creatures, or are the creatures attracted to them?"

"We're not sure, but Missouri thinks that this kid is so powerful that he's acting like a beacon to the supernatural."

"Wait, you know who they are?" Dean frowned, pursing his lips in thought. Missouri wasn't powerful enough to learn who the psychic was from halfway across the country, was she?

"Joshua's had some contact with a psychic in town, Moore or something. Not very powerful, but she manages to make a living out of a psychic hotline."

Dean froze in his seat, blood running cold as a horrible idea sprung to mind. Sam worked in a psychic hotline that his friends' mother owned, right? Fuck, what had her last name been?

"He asked her who she thinks could be responsible, and she said she didn't know, but that she had a new worker who has a lot of psychic power but doesn't seem to be able to control it. He's dangerous, Dean. Even if he doesn't know what he's doing, he needs to be dealt with, or even more creatures will be attracted to him and even more lives will be endangered."

Dean blanched. He had to kill a human being?? "W-What's his name?"_Don't be Sam, don't be Sam, don't be Sam._

"Samuel Barrett."

The cell phone clattered to the floor, the snap it made as it closed sounding strangely like the report of a gun, echoing in Dean's ears with horrible finality.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Supernatural or Celine Dion

A/N: Sorry for the longer than usual wait for this chapter; I was at camp for a while and then I just couldn't seem to write this damn thing. I've finally managed to cobble together something almost worthwhile (I hope), so here it is. Not much action like I planned in here, sorry... It took me ages to write this, and then I looked back on it and thought that there wasn't really much to show for my labour. Tell me what you think in a review, could you please?

* * *

Normally he hated having to do chores (even though it wasn't like he ever had anything particularly important to do instead), but hopefully the walk would prove to be a good distraction from the worry nagging at his stomach. His aunt had given him a short shopping list and sent him to the small grocers down the road with forty bucks in his pocket and a calico shopping bag in his hand. He frequently wondered how using a calico shopping bag would help the environment when his aunt brought the bag to the shops in her gas guzzling four by four. Sometimes he just didn't get people.

Swinging the bag back and forth, Sam made his way down their driveway and turned right, unzipped hoodie flapping slightly in the light breeze. The suburban street was empty of people despite it being the middle of a very nice day; the only sounds besides those of his scuffing footsteps the incessant chirping of cicadas. He faintly remembered being eight and playing on the streets with his neighbours any chance he could get, glorying in the sunny weather. Did kids even do that anymore, or did they just stay inside and play on their various game consoles and watch television all day?

The walk to store took little more than ten minutes, and Sam spent the time enjoying the fresh sea breeze and the warm sun on his skin after taking his hoodie off. Days as perfect as this were rare – maybe he'd go for a walk in the park later. It'd be better if he had some company, though. Maybe he'd call Jess...

Yeah, _call_ Jess. Well, duh, it wasn't like he was afraid of using phones... Right? _On second thoughts, maybe I shouldn't answer that question..._

Shaking his head to himself, a sheepish smile on his face, he walked up to the door of the grocers, waiting outside for a girl exiting the store to walk past him. He gave her a friendly smile and a polite nod, and she blushed slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear and ducking her head whilst she strode past. He knew exactly who she was – Lily Campbell, teenage daughter of one of the local librarians. He still hadn't gotten used to living in this tiny place, knowing the names of all the residents of his town still somewhat of a novelty to him, something unreal that was only seen on cheesy daytime television and in horror movies about small towns that had dark secrets hidden under that happy, G-rated veneer...

He was just being paranoid. But after spending his whole life living in the suburbs of a big city and hardly even knowing his neighbours, let alone everyone living in the same suburb as him, everyone knowing who he was felt downright creepy. Hell, it seemed that every single person here, stranger or not, knew his entire family history. Gossip travelled remarkably fast, and it was almost impossible to have secrets in such a tight-knit community. At least no-one but Jess had figured out that he was gay yet, and unlike seemingly everyone in this town, she actually had some respect for his privacy.

It wasn't like this place was full of homophobes, but there weren't any openly gay people around here either, so he couldn't tell what the towns' reaction would be. People fear what they can't understand, and Sam greatly doubted that they'd understand that he found other men attractive. _Okay, so they aren't homophobic, but it's the most probable outcome. Always prepare for the worst._

Realising that he was just standing around outside, looking lost, he shook himself from his thoughts and entered the store, enjoying the cool, refrigerated air on his skin and most definitely not enjoying the Celine Dion track drifting through the speakers. Fishing the list out of his pocket, he proceeded to wander the store, mind not really on the task. It wasn't like he had to concentrate whilst shopping, unlike Jess. When she shopped it was with one mined determination, and she seemed to have no care for anything but finding exactly what she 'needed' (it seemed to Sam that she only _wanted_ things – who _needs_ high heeled shoes anyway?) The first and last time he had gone shopping with her he had spent most of his time either bored, bewildered, or downright afraid. The fact that there was a huge sale on at the time hadn't helped.

Sifting through a large pile of apples to find the few that weren't chalky or bruised, Sam gave a silent cheer of relief when Celine Dion abruptly shut up right in the middle of _My Heart Will Go On_. If only he hadn't left his mp3 player at home – he felt like listening to some real music, not this tearjerker crap. Then again, he supposed the owners of the store wanted to please their most regular clientele of women, especially mothers dragging around bored, cranky children and chatting to all the other mothers (and there always seemed to be heaps) as they strolled past whilst studiously ignoring their kids' complaints. Maybe they actually planned their meetings at the shop – he wouldn't be surprised if there was a huge amount of social networking going on in places like this all around the country, no, world. Thankfully, right now the store was empty except for him.

Gathering up the best apples he could find and dumping them into the calico bag, Sam gloried in the silence as he made his way over to the bananas. Glancing at the counter as he walked past, he saw the check out girl frowning as she stared up at the speakers built into the corners of the roof, simultaneously mumbling into the phone pressed to her right ear. He thought idly that she must be talking to an electrician or someone similar; obviously the sudden silencing of Celine Dion (he really shouldn't think of it as culling) hadn't been planned.

Selecting a half ripe bunch of bananas, he jumped when the silence was abruptly interrupted by static so loud that it caused him to wince in pain, clapping his hands over his ears. The girl at the counter gave a little yelp of surprise, clutching the phone tighter to her ear and starting to shout into the mouthpiece, obviously struggling to be heard. Well, this was just great. He didn't give a crap if his aunt and uncle got angry with him because of his failure to do his chore – he was not going to shop in this racket. He didn't particularly like the idea of going deaf.

Having decided what he was going to do, he dumped the bunch of bananas unceremoniously back down with their fellows and grabbed his bag of apples. He would buy the apples at least, and then hightail his way out of here. The crackle and hiss of the static was hammering into his brain, and he was already developing a headache. What a shitty radio it must be – and he wasn't surprised, considering this was but a lowly fruit store.

He had only taken a few steps away from the bananas when the static suddenly quieted down to a gentle hiss, causing him to pause, frowning. The check out girl gave a sigh of relief, saying one last thing to whoever she was talking to and then putting the phone back on the cradle. Well, this hadn't been part of the plan. _To shop or not to shop – that is the question._

Deciding that he might as well get his job over and done with now that the torture had ended, he turned back towards the bananas (why was he being so indecisive today? So – jumpy?) He had only taken a few steps back when the hiss of static was suddenly interrupted by a high pitched sound that was both a whine and a buzz, the sort of sound you heard when you were turning the dial on a radio, trying to find a station. For a split second the sound screeched through the speakers, and Sam winced at the new assault on his ears, simultaneously annoyed and bewildered. What the fuck was going on here anyway? And why the hell was the check out girl just standing there, looking bored, not reacting to the horrible screech at all? Last time he checked, she had been way easy to freak out.

Abruptly, the whining was replaced by silence, and Sam stood frozen in the isle, body tense whilst his heart raced. The faint crackle of static was heard once more, and then a strange muttering sound filtered faintly through the speakers. Frowning, Sam cocked his head to the side as he stared at the speakers, trying to interpret the sound. At the counter, the check out girl was tapping out a rhythm with her nails as she twirled a lock of hair around her fingers.

As the sound grew in volume, pouring out of the speakers in a loud hum, Sam suddenly identified it. It was like many voices talking at the same time, so loud and so many that they blended together into one drone. Frowning, he cocked his head, trying to identify the words, but quickly worked out that they were all saying different things. _Okay, now that you've established that, can you please focus on the important things? Like why you're hearing random voices over what are probably broken speakers?_

Huh. Good point.

But before he could expand on that thought, one of the voices grew louder, shouting over the others that were all clamouring for… _someone's_ attention. Sam didn't quite want to believe it was his own; but the fact that the check out girl didn't seem to notice what was going on and the next words the loudest voice shouted flushed that hope down the drain.

"Help me! My girlfriend…" the next few words were interrupted by a crackle of static, "in the head! She took… have to… her flat…" As Sam gaped in astonishment at the speakers, face pale as milk, the voice faded from hearing in a hiss of static before being replaced by another, yelling something about a man and a car crash and "_I bet my library books are all overdue, damnit! And I never got to the climax, either!"_

_Sorry__ man, but dying can be pretty damn inconvenient…_ the thought was half hysteric, and Sam fought the urge to giggle maniacally, dread creeping up his spine now that what this…_phenomenon_ was was suddenly clear in his mind. _It's freaking white noise. Christ._

White noise, Electronic Voice Phenomena, EVP, whatever you wanted to call it (he had done some research about it a long while ago just out of interest, and yes, he was indeed a huge nerd.) EVP was when you heard voices through static on the radio and various other electronic devices. Voices that were said to be to be those of the dead. But that did they want with him? Were they attracted by his powers? Did they want him to put them to rest or something? Help them on their journey to the afterlife or some other new age mumbo jumbo crap?

And why on earth did he seem to be the only one who could hear them?

It sucked out loud, not having all the answers. Hell, not having _any_ answers. It made him feel useless and stupid, the two things he always strived not to be. He prided himself on being fiercely independent, and that was not going to change anytime soon. A couple of ghosts weren't going to get the better of him.

_Really? Why are you so damn scared of them then?_

He suddenly realised what he was doing; standing in the middle of the empty isle, staring up at the speakers as though they were about to jump him – he was _cowering_. Adrenaline raced through his blood, his previously violently thumping heart slowing down a fraction now that his initial panic had passed. He had panicked, just because of some voices over the radio. What could voices do, besides annoy the hell of him? Brainwash him or something? _Well, actually…_

Rolling his eyes to himself, Sam let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in one long exhale. Even if they could brainwash him or something similar, he couldn't do anything about it; he would just have to suck it up and deal with this until he found the answers to his questions. If he was able to. He wasn't quite sure where to start looking…

He gave a little jump and a wince when the voices got even louder, screaming at him all at once over the speakers. _God_, but it was loud. He felt like his eardrums were going to burst, and he clamped his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to block out the horrible noise. From behind the counter the check out girl stared at him with wide, startled eyes, obviously thinking he was insane. And maybe that was true. He had to be insane; insane or dreaming. _So, Sam, what can voices do again?_

Make him feel as though his skull was about to explode, it seemed. They were pretty damn good at driving him away, too; with a small cry of pain Sam ran from the store, leaving behind the anguished cries of the restless dead and the sudden loud trilling of the phone. The phone that, when answered by the check out girl, only static came from.

* * *

It took Sam a long while to get to sleep. He lay on his bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling as he tried to get his mind around the events of the day. It took him until midnight to give up on his musings and switch off the lamp on his bedside table, settling curled up on his side under the covers.

As soon as he was calm enough to fall to sleep, he fell into a dream.

_The sky was pitch black and littered with the small white __dots of stars. The metallic tang of blood was heavy in the air, stirred only slightly by the light breeze, and the long grass of the field rustled slightly. The moon was bright and full overhead, a pallid yellow eye glaring down at the quiet landscape, the silence broken only by calm breathing and the crunch of boots on gravel._

_There was a__ dark figure standing at the side of the road, leaning against a car that was but a black shadow in the equally dark night except for the silver pistol, glowing in the moonlight, that lay in place of pride on the dashboard, strange symbols carved into its shining barrel. The loud trilling of a phone interrupted the quiet night, and the rustle of clothing was heard as the figure frantically fished in his pockets, trying to find the cell, before flipping it open with a snap and shoving it to his ear without bothering to glance at the display._

"_Sir?"_

"_Son." __Gruff. "Have you done the job?"_

_There was a long pause__, followed by the rustle of fabric as the dark figure looked over his shoulder and into the interior of the car. "Yes Sir. It's done."_

* * *

God, he felt like such a stalker.

Well, he _was_ a stalker. After he had gotten over his initial shock at his dads' order (and that hadn't been at all an easy task) he had driven slowly, hesitantly, over to Sam's house and parked the Impala across the road. There he had sat for a few minutes, just staring over at the large two story house with a pretty white picket fence and wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. Then he had sighed, cranked up Black Sabbath, and got settled back in his chair for a long wait.

He didn't know what he was waiting _for_. Even when he saw the kid leave his house with calico shopping bag in hand he hadn't done anything. Hadn't bothered to follow him or jump him, or take him out with the goddamn sniper rifle. Hadn't bothered to do anything that he _should_ be doing, seems as he was going to kill the kid.

_Kill the kid._ Such a casual phrase, and yet it sent a shiver down his spine and caused bile to rise in his throat. His dad wanted him to kill a kid, a sixteen year old. A human being. Of course, in John's view he was just another supernatural threat, another monster to put down; but he wasn't the one that had to do the dirty work. He didn't _know_ Sam. But did Dean know Sam; know him well enough to make a judgement? In truth, he couldn't really tell whether Sam was a psychic killing machine or just a kid whose powers were going haywire. His heart was telling him that it couldn't be anything but the latter; his head was telling him that he had to kill him either way, because it was an_order_.

Dean always followed orders. He was the perfect soldier, the perfect son, and it was all that he had wanted for his whole life. Could he throw that away for some (incredibly cute) guy that he had only known for two weeks? He didn't know if Sam was innocent or guilty, and there wasn't any way to tell, really. Maybe the kid had been using psychic mojo this whole time; knew that hunters were out to get him and decided to intervene, decided to get Dean on his side.

The horrible thing about that idea was that it was entirely plausible. The thought that Sam had been having him on this whole time made him unspeakably angry, made him feel betrayed and almost sad – but it was just that, a thought. It wasn't the truth (he really fucking hoped it wasn't the truth.) What Dean reckoned (hoped) was the truth was that Sam was just an innocent kid who didn't know how to control his powers, was clueless as to the trouble they were causing.

As long as Dean was unsure, he knew he couldn't kill Sam. And would he ever be sure enough to take his life in cold blood?

His internal arguments were suddenly interrupted by the ringing of his cell. Grabbing it off the dash, he answered the call thinking that it was his dad; but when he opened his mouth to give his customary greeting, he realised that all he could hear through the earpiece was static. Frowning, he took the phone from his ear and stared at the screen. His reception was fine, but the screen was blank when usually it would display the number of the caller. _What the fuck?_

Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement through the car window; glancing up, he stared in astonishment as Sam barrelled down the street, shopping bag nowhere to be seen. Sitting up straighter in his seat, he put his face so close to the open window he was pretty much hanging out of it, trying to figure out what had the kid spooked. The expression on his face was something close to panic or fear, and Dean wanted to rush over the road, sweep the kid up in his arms and – whoa, what? What was this, some sort of freaking romantic drama?

Scowling to himself, Dean shook his head to clear it of idiotic thoughts and refocused on Sam, who was now throwing himself through his unlocked front door. From inside the house, Dean heard the very faint ringing of the phone before the door slammed shut.

_Ringing..._

An idea springing into his mind he glanced at his phone, listened to the static still cracking out of the earpiece and felt both parts joy and concern. If his sudden suspicions were right – and god, he hoped they were – this was EVP, and it was happening because of Sam. And Sam seemed totally bewildered about it…


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Supernatural

A/N: I haven't much to say, except that I hope you enjoy this and I hope you review! No pressure, though. None at all.

* * *

This was stupid. What the hell was he doing here?

Grunting slightly in discomfort, Dean shifted on the black leather of the Impala's front seat, trying to find a comfortable position for his numb buttocks. The attempt failed spectacularly and Dean spent the next few seconds trying not to voice his pain as his leg, which had fallen asleep a long while ago, reawakened at the movement and promptly decided to hurt like a bitch.

This was seriously whacked up. He had been lounging in the Impala's front seat - watching Sam's house - for the whole day, and now it was one o'clock at night. Why on earth was he _still_ here?

_God, I'm thirsty. A beer would be good…_

But the beer was in the trunk, and he couldn't be bothered getting out of the Impala, was worried that messing around would attract the attention of… something. Because whether Sam was innocent or guilty, there was a still a damn good chance that there were supernatural creatures lurking around him, hidden in the thick shadows covering the silent suburban street. Attracted to his power or awaiting his orders.

Despite his earlier surety that Sam was innocent, he was definitely having second thoughts. If Sam really was so powerful, why on earth hadn't he been attacked by anything supernatural yet? Then again, even if he had been, he probably wouldn't advertise the fact. But still… there were many things about Sam that made him extremely suspicious, and yet there were many things about Sam that made him want to protect him, preserve him. But those qualities that made Dean want to protect him: the innocence, the kindness (the geekiness, even), the utter cuteness and loveableness and fuckableness and was he high or something, because what the fuck? Anyway, all those attractive qualities – what if they were just an act? What if Sam was just pretending so he could fool Dean into letting his guard down? Into not doing his job?

And that prospect was the one that continued to nag at Dean, continued to tease him and poke at him until he felt like he was about ready to explode, or kill something at least. For some reason the thought of Sam… _betraying_ him (it was the only way he knew how to describe it) made him sick to his stomach, made him blind with rage, made him feel like he might burst into tears, whimper _don't you love me?_ like some naïve little girl who believed that relationships were forever that had just been dumped by her boyfriend. This turbulent mix of emotions just served to make Dean even more confused and frustrated with himself.

Anyway, he shouldn't be dwelling on something that wasn't the here and now, that wasn't the hunt. Sighing, he carefully moved his recently awakened leg, wincing at the pins and needles which assaulted him as the blood flow returned to the limb. The pain focused his wandering mind, which was just what he needed – inattention could very easily mean death. Glancing over to the silent EMF meter that lay on the seat beside him, resting next to his rock salt-loaded shotgun, made that statement sound like bullshit. The meter hadn't gone off at all the whole time he had been here.

Arranging his body so he could stretch his leg out on the seat and still keep an eye on Sam's house, Dean found a semi-comfortable position and braced himself to wait the rest of the night. It was already one o'clock, so he might as well. It wasn't like he had anything better to do… actually, that was a lie. He was able to think of a million things he could rather be doing right now, alcohol involved in near all of them.

He was dozing, near asleep, when the EMF meter started wailing, all of the lights along the top of the contraption coming to life. Startled from his nap, Dean jerked himself upright in the seat and scanned the scenery through the windows, simultaneously reaching for his shotgun. He couldn't see anything, but the EMF wasn't shutting up, so he opened the door and got out onto the pavement, shoving the meter into the pocket of his jacket. Closing the door as quietly as possible (quite a feat, what with the incredibly squeaky hinges), he walked a few feet from the Impala, still scanning his surroundings whilst listening as hard as he possibly could, shotgun clenched in clammy hands.

There. Movement, in the small bushes of Sam's front garden. Dean crept forward, hefting his shotgun to his shoulder. The leaves were rustling slightly as though some small animal were burrowing through them, but the EMF was still going off, so it had to be something supernatural. He had no idea what sort of creature would hang out in someone's garden (besides garden gnomes. Man, gnomes were freaky little fuckers. Why on earth did people _like_ them?) but the EMF had never led him astray.

He was now mere inches away from the source of the movement. He reached out an arm to brush the bushes aside, movements slow and careful, and then gave a gasp of surprise (not that he'd ever admit it) as a black shape streaked from the bushes, right between his legs. Cursing, he stumbled around just in time to catch sight of a small black shape running across the road and vanishing into the shadows of a walkway.

His EMF had gone off because of a black cat? The fuck?

* * *

"Sam, what the hell were you playing at last night?"

Sam glanced up from his cereal and frowned over at his aunt and uncle, who sat together at the opposite side of the living room table. "Huh?"

"I was wondering why Paul didn't call me last night," his uncle growled, glaring at him. "You _do _know who Paul is, don't you?"

"Um, is he that friend of yours from Australia? The one… that… oh." Sam winced, bracing himself for the explosion that was sure to come. His uncle only got to talk to Paul once in a while, different time zones and the cost of calling being obstacles, and the worst thing was was that Paul had cancer and his condition was swiftly deteriorating. His uncle valued the rare call so much because each one could very easily be the last.

God, but he felt like such a selfish bastard. Yesterday, before his aunt and uncle came home, he had pulled the plug on every phone in the house to stop them from ringing off their hooks. In his panic he had totally forgotten Paul's scheduled call, had been thinking only of himself.

"Yes, 'oh'!" his uncle spat, stabbing at his eggs with unneeded violence. "You're as troublesome as your father -" _Here we go again,_ Sam thought to himself, not bothering to try and suppress his eye roll as he tuned out his uncle's rant. He felt guilty about preventing Paul's call, but when he thought of his uncle's near daily ritual of slagging off his parents and himself, he didn't feel half as regretful. He was sorry for Paul, but he definitely didn't give a crap about his uncle's happiness.

" – she was only a child, and living in sin with a man of twenty five! And he wasn't the first man she had been with -" Apparently his uncle had bypassed the 'your father couldn't keep his dick in his pants' (though he didn't say it in those exact words) part and gone straight for the 'your mother was a slut' part.

To an outside observer it would seem that Sam wasn't at all bothered by the accusations, sitting serenely at his seat and leisurely eating cereal as though he had all the time in the world, but he had heard it all - and protested against it all - so many times that he had just learned to block it out. Fighting with uncle about it had never gotten him anywhere, and he knew that they would never come to a truce, so simply ignoring him had to suffice. Sometimes the comments did get under his skin, but then he reminded himself that they came from a slovenly, idiotic man in his early forties who thought that the sun shone out of Pairs Hilton's ass (much to his wife's chagrin.) What did his opinion matter?

Having finished his cereal, Sam stood up, dumping his dishes in the sink on the way out of the room, ignoring his uncle ("you come back here, boy!") as he yelled after him and striding away, thanking god that the phone hadn't rung during breakfast. Maybe the ghosts had given up for a while after trying yesterday and finding the phones unplugged. Making his way down the hallway, he turned into his room and grabbed his wallet before heading back up the corridor, towards the front door. He wanted to get out of here before his uncle _really_ started to rant, and he didn't want to take a chance with the phones. He didn't know where he would go – only that he wanted to get away.

For a moment he sat on the doorsill, tugging on and lacing up his sneakers, and then he was on his feet, striding down the road. He headed in the direction of Rayford Drive, a vague idea of wandering around the shops and having a look at the brand new laptops on display at the only computer store in town springing to life in his mind. His own laptop was getting old and slow, the software was dated and the (very small) hard drive was completely full. His aunt and uncle would never get anything so expensive for him – but since he had a job, he would hopefully be able to afford a laptop for himself in the future.

He had just reached the more middle-class part of Rayford Drive and was making his way up to the computer store when he heard the screeching of brakes behind him, most probably from a vehicle speeding through the intersection he had just crossed. It was so close that it sent a shiver down his spine and caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up, and he whirled around, watching wide eyed as a small black convertible roared down the road, its grey-haired occupant clinging white-knuckled to the steering wheel. Black tyre tracks were painted messily across the tarmac, at one point almost mounting the curve that he stood only a few feet from. _Christ. That was way too close for comfort._ A large black bird, scared by the loud noise, swooped out of a nearby tree and went soaring into the sky with a startled caw.

For a moment Sam just stood and stared after the sports car, gaping in shock. _That could easily have hit me._ He felt distinctly shaken, his heart racing with fear. Focused as he was on the supernatural dangers, it was a very unpleasant surprise to be reminded of the many mundane phenomena that could just as easily spell his death. Which was more dangerous – a spirit or a car? Was he just overreacting with all this worrying about things that went bump in the night? _This little incident has got you questioning everything?_ The thought was incredulous, and Sam's answer was also (when had he started arguing with himself all the time, anyway?)_It was a freaking near-death experience! I'm allowed to question my life after one of those!_

"Maybe I should make a television show," he muttered to himself, letting out a long breath. "I could call it _My Name Is Sam._"

"Dude, don't tell me you forgot." Sam froze; eyes clenched tight shut, wishing that he could just disappear, sink down through the pavement and lurk in some elaborate underground labyrinth for the rest of his lonely life. Wow, that actually sounded like fun. _Jesus, Dean, why couldn't you have arrived at a good time? Ya know, sometime when I'm not acting like a freak._ "Hey, are you alright? It was only a joke, man. Your secret's safe with me." He could _hear_ the smirk in Dean's voice. It simultaneously aggravated him and made want to grin like a fool.

"Whatever," he muttered, turning to face the older man and hoping he didn't look _too_ lovestruck. It just felt like ages since he had seen him (felt like so much had changed), and Dean was… well, he was as gorgeous as ever, and absence had most definitely made Sam's heart grow fonder. He could only hope that the feeling was mutual… that the older man hadn't been thankful to get away. Dean was standing a few feet from him, a smirk on his face and a look in eyes that was almost… fond? Only for a moment - abruptly it was replaced by a cautious, guarded look, and Sam wondered what on earth Dean was defending himself from.

"Good comeback there, Sammy." Before Sam could retort (with what he wasn't sure) Dean carried on, ignoring his open mouth. "You hungry at all? Only there's a two for one special in that Chinese place down the road." His grin was huge, infectious – and fake.

Unsettled, Sam gave back a false smile of his own. "Um, okay."

They walked down the road in silence, neither talking nor touching. The silence around them was tense and uncomfortable, and Sam couldn't help but worry that it was his fault somehow. What had he done? Did Dean feel obligated to him in some way – hanging out with him because he felt sorry for the fact that he was a hopeless geek who didn't have any friends? _Dean, feel guilty? No freaking way._ Well, not in Sam's knowledge of him anyway. Which meant jack. Sam probably didn't know a thing about Dean – the older man had probably just done hung out with him out of pity or boredom.

Then again, he could just be overreacting. Maybe Dean was just having a bad day. Studying the other man out of the corner of his eye, Sam eyed the fake grin stretched almost grotesquely over his face, the dark, haunted eyes…Christ. Didn't sadistic serial killers look like that? They probably weren't going to lunch – no, Dean was going to lead him down some dark, abandoned alleyway. Once they had walked into the darkest part of the place he would knock him out with a syringe, pause to cackle with glee, hog tie him with a handy length of rope produced from… somewhere, gag him, blindfold him, and throw his limp body into the back of a windowless white van. He would then drive said van to some abandoned warehouse or basement or something and proceed to tie Sam to a chair in the middle of the room and torture him cruelly and mercilessly for days on end until he was begging for death.

… _Right._ Rolling his eyes to himself (and hoping Dean didn't notice him do so), Sam cast around in his mind for something to break the awkward silence with. It hardly came as a surprise to him when he found nothing. Even when they were having a normal conversation (when _Dean_ was normal), Sam was too nervous and embarrassed at his obvious crush to think up anything remotely interesting to talk about.

Well, if he couldn't think up a conversation, he would just have to find something else to distract himself from the gut wrenching horribleness of this situation. Awkward silences were just so goddamn… _awkward_, for lack of a better phrase. If he couldn't break them, he would rather occupy his mind with something else in an attempt to escape them. It worked… sort of. But it was better than nothing.

Something like… that dream. Sam blinked to himself, startled, having totally forgotten about the vivid (dream? Nightmare?) he had experienced the night before. What had happened? There was that big black car, the guy standing on the side of the road and talking on his cell, telling someone _the job is done._ What the hell? Totally random, but extremely vivid and entirely realistic. Something that he would expect to see in a film or television show, not in his sleep. What on earth was the guy doing, anyway? The phone call had sounded pretty ominous. Maybe he was an assassin and he just about to bury or burn his latest kill in a field. Maybe when he had glanced back, through the windows of the car, he was glancing at the victims' body sprawled across the backseat. But if it was a body, wouldn't he have stuffed it in the boot? _Okay, maybe not quite so realistic._

Preoccupied as he was by pondering his dream, when he felt Dean's hand on his arm he gave a little squeak of surprise (god, he sounded like a little girl. In front of Dean!) and whirled around to face the older man. Dean cocked an eyebrow at him, that goddamn sexy/annoying smirk spread lopsidedly across his face. The firm grip on Sam's arm softened into a caress. "You must have been really spaced out. I was practically yelling at you. We've arrived, you know."

Blushing right up to the roots of his hair, Sam stared at Dean with wide, startled eyes, struggling to find a reply. Dean's mere presence was overwhelming him; face just inches from his own. He was so close that Sam could feel the heat radiating from Dean's body, sending a pleasurable shiver down his spine. It didn't help that the hand was stroking his arm absently; a gentle gesture of affection that Sam was sure Dean didn't know he was making. For a moment he was sure he saw something like heat in Dean's eyes, and then the older man was frowning, his hand stilling in its movements. "… Dean?"

The frown lines deepened, his lips stretching into a thin straight line. It was as though he was struggling internally, his grip on Sam's arm tightening until it became painful. The small gasp he gave as Dean's fingers dug even deeper into his flesh seemed to bring the older man into the present. Sam was both glad and disappointed when Dean immediately lost his grip on Sam's arm, snatching his hand back as though he had been burned. "I'm sorry."

When he opened his mouth to reply with something intelligent and witty, all that came out was "Huh?"

The corners of Dean's lips curved upward for a second and then he was stepping forward, right into Sam's personal space. Dean's right hand curled possessively around his hip, squeezing there before he tugged Sam forward so they were pressed chest to chest, nose to nose, and then he leant even closer. _Ohmygodholycrapishegoingtokissme?!_ Sam's hysterical, excited question was answered when Dean's lips met his, wet, warm lips resting against his own without any movement, and even that was enough to wipe all rational thought from his mind. And then those soft lips were moving, parting, and a questing tongue licked at his mouth, causing Sam to gasp and lean closer, opening his lips under Dean's own.

This _had_ to be a dream, because Dean's tongue was in his mouth, sliding against his own, the sensation so delicious, so _fuckinghot_ that Sam moaned, legs turning to jelly, body pliant in Dean's strong arms as he wrapped them around the younger boys waist. _Jesus,_ they were kissing right in the _street_ where everyone could see and Sam couldn't bring himself to give a fuck. It was hot and liberating and _god_, just, _fuck._ He couldn't think, couldn't respond; all he could do was hang on, clutch at the leather of Dean's jacket as the older man explored every inch of his mouth with a hot tongue, as the taste of Dean flooded his senses: bitter black coffee, faint hints of sweet chocolate and minty toothpaste.

He was in heaven, this was bliss, but it was over all too soon, and Sam almost gave a whimper of disappointment as Dean pulled back and unwrapped his arms from around his waist. They stood there, panting breaths caressing flushed skin, firm chests rising and falling against each other. After what could have been an eternity or simply a second, Dean stepped back, and Sam opened eyes that he didn't know were closed, blinking at the older man in a happy daze. His contentment swiftly morphed into worry when he noticed Dean's unhappy frown. Had he been the only one to enjoy the kiss? Was he not good enough for Dean?

"Sorry," he said, again. Before Sam could ask him what he was apologising for, what he had _kissed_ him for, Dean turned and strode away down the street without once glancing back, leaving the teenager standing alone in front of the Chinese takeaway, frowning in confusion, one hand reaching up of its own accord to brush against swollen lips.

In the narrow brick alleyway that separated the Chinese takeaway from an antiques shop, in front of the large orange dumpster, the spirit of Maureen Carter stirred, angry dark eyes focused on the psychic who stood so perilously close to her abode.


End file.
